


the devil's work

by unreadable0



Series: I'll find you in every universe... [5]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Demon AU, Demon Courting, Demon Summoning, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Kurapika and Kuroro are Bad At Feelings, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Moving On, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, demon Kuroro, it took so long, some part of me died writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 13:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19319095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreadable0/pseuds/unreadable0
Summary: “You feel something too,” Kuroro insists, “don’t you?” He walks closer and Kurapika matches him with a step backward. “I know you do.” Suddenly, the demon is behind him. A finger strokes his pulse, which beats strong and fast under his touch. Kurapika exhales shakily, trying not to get lost in the other’s heat, his scent.“This isn’t love, Kuroro.”“No,” Kuroro breathes, moving in front of him so that their eyes can meet, “this is something much deeper. You depend on me. You need me, Kurapika.” There’s no mockery, no arrogance in his words—just simple fact.dedicated to my lovely muse @Chocoholic221B





	the devil's work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chocoholic221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocoholic221B/gifts).



> Wow, this took me longer than I'd like to admit to finish. I think my writing stamina pretty much disappeared over my hiatus, so cranking out anything longer than 3000 words was super difficult! I had to portion out pieces to write over the course of two weeks in order to keep the quality consistent, which kind of worked, but also kind of didn't. This oneshot was supposed to be a 1500 word prompt fill, but I got really attached to the Demon AU and actually sat down and planned a vague plotline to follow. If this piece reads a little darker than usual, then that was my intention. I wanted to write something that was a more serious departure from my usual work, and showcased a more unhealthy and maybe more realistic Kuroro/Kurapika AU. This is pretty dense because I can't write concisely for the life of me, so I would suggest reading pretty carefully if you have the time! Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Kurapika is twelve when he first sees him—the demon.

He’s coming home from school, bursting with talk about a new science project that he’s started with Pairo. He finds the front door cracked open and he’s confused because his parents always lock the doors leading to the street. Still, he pushes into the foyer, calling out to his mother.

He has barely stepped into the house when Kurapika realizes that something is wrong. It’s too silent, and he stops at the staircase, praying that he’ll hear the lively voice of his mother ringing down the hallway. But there’s nothing. His heart jumps to his throat.

Quietly, he grabs the bokken blades that he knows his father keeps in the cabinet under his desk and walks up to his parent’s bedroom. The weight of the metal feels foreign in his hands, but he forces himself to keep steady as he slips into the room.

The swords fall to the floor with a clatter.

He knows he’ll never forget it, the sight of his parents’ bodies lying so deathly still on the ground. They look like they’re just sleeping, and Kurapika would have knelt down to shake them awake if it weren’t for the blood staining the white carpet beneath them. A horrified, silent scream wracks his body, and he’s about to reach down to close his mother’s unseeing eyes when he notices he’s not alone. There’s a man standing in the middle of it all, the afternoon sun painting his features molten gold. He’s painfully beautiful, and if it weren’t for the scarlet staining his suit, Kurapika would have mistaken him for an angel.

Kurapika’s breaths come out high and panicked as the man turns to face him, wiping off his long, curved knife. The killer doesn’t seem surprised to see him, and Kurapika takes a stumbling step backward.

“You—you killed them,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid to shatter the heavy silence. This timidness quickly falls away as Kurapika surveys the carnage once more. “You killed them,” he repeats, stronger, _angrier_ , bending down to pick up his weapons.

The killer just lifts an eyebrow. “So I did,” he replies. His voice is smooth and soft, slipping into Kurapika’s mind like honey.

“And you will kill me as well, then?” Kurapika asks defiantly. His grip tightens on the bokken handles.

The man moves with inhuman speed, plucking the weapons from the blond’s hands. Kurapika squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the sick slide of the blade against his throat. "No." Kurapika's eyes snap open. 

“I won’t kill you. Not today, not ever,” the man says calmly. “Kurapika—”

Kurapika doesn’t get to ask how the stranger knows his name when a muffled crash sounds from the floor below. The man curses, grabbing Kurapika’s arm and dragging him towards the closet. Kurapika struggles, flailing around with as much strength as he can muster, but his captor’s hold doesn’t falter.

“Let go of me,” Kurapika hisses, but the man silences him with a sharp look.

“Stay quiet,” he orders, herding him into the cramped space. Kurapika glares at him, shoving him away. The man sighs. “Your parents sacrificed a lot for you, Kurapika. If you want to honor that, then you have to trust me.”

Kurapika stills at the mention of his mother and father. The man takes the opportunity to push the blond fully into the closet.

“Don’t make a sound,” he warns, before shutting the door.

Kurapika scrambles to the keyhole just in time to see a man clad in a business suit walk into the room. A mafia don. Kurapika recognizes him from the case files that his parents sometimes left on the coffee table. The man’s face is nondescript, but there’s an element of cruel delight to his expression that puts Kurapika on edge.

“Is it done?” the mafia man asks, nudging Kurapika’s mother with his shoe. Something dark burns in Kurapika’s chest as he watches the man kick around his mother’s delicate frame.

The killer regards him coolly. “The bodies are here, are they not? What do you think?” The man bristles.

“What about the kid, Lucilfer?” he asks, looking around. Kurapika backs away from the closet door, heart thundering in his chest. _He promised…_

To his relief, Lucilfer just scoffs. “Forgive me if I don’t enjoy killing _children,_ ” he quips.

“You’re bound to the contract,” the man growls.

“And I followed it,” Lucilfer snaps, towering over the other man. “You asked for the termination of the Kurta detectives’ case on you, and I accomplished that.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “Their work is gone, burned. Our contract is complete.”

The man still looks like he wants to object, but then Lucilfer's eyes flash with something dark and violent and he reconsiders. “Fine,” he concedes, “you’re released from your contract.” There’s a brief flash of light as Lucilfer lets out a deep sigh. Kurapika watches as the man’s appearance shifts and twists, like melted candle wax. When the last of Lucilfer’s features slip back into place, Kurapika bites back a gasp. _Demon._ The demon’s dark aura makes the air feel suffocating, and Kurapika shudders as fear floods his body unbidden.

Lucilfer grins, teeth sharp. “Our business is done. When should I be expecting my payment?”

The man swallows nervously, backing away. “You’ll have what you requested by tomorrow morning.”

The demon’s smile widens. “Good.” The man moves to leave, but Lucilfer snaps his fingers, as if remembering something. “Oh, and as an added note,” he continues cheerfully, and the mafia boss turns around, reluctance clear, “do not summon me again, Huai. You will find me to be _far_ less patient the second time around.” The threat hangs menacingly in the air for a moment, and the man doesn’t need any more encouragement as he scurries out of the house.

Lucilfer sighs, shaking his head. The demon opens the closet door, offering a hand to Kurapika. “Come on,” he beckons. “You need to get out of here.”

Kurapika just stares at the other’s outstretched hand. “Who are you?” he asks warily.

There’s a ghost of a smile. “You can call me Kuroro,” he replies. “Now please, you must hurry.”

Against his better judgment, the blond takes his hand, letting the demon lead him out into the street.

* * *

“That man,” Kurapika prompts, stirring his bowl of canned soup pensively, “ _Huai._ He’s the one who ordered my parent’s murder?”

The demon hums in response, puttering around the ensuite kitchen of the hotel room that they’ve been living in for the past month. Setting a cup of water down in front of the boy, Kuroro sits opposite of him, folding his hands neatly into his lap. “Yes.”

Kurapika lets a carrot slip from his spoon, watching it slosh back into the broth. A charged silence reigns for a few moments. “Why are you here?” he asks, changing the subject.

Kuroro doesn’t even bat an eye. “You have something that was promised to me.” Kurapika tries not to feel disappointed. 

“Whatever it is, we can go back to the house to look for it,” Kurapika suggests half-heartedly, “but if it’s anything of my Father’s, you’re not getting it.” Kuroro shakes is head.

“If only it were that simple,” Kuroro says quietly.

Kurapika casts him a long look to let him know that he isn’t dropping the subject. Kuroro purses his lips.

“Kurapika, what I want is your soul,” the demon explains matter-of-factly. “Once you die, your soul is mine.”

“Then why didn’t you let me die?” Kurapika fires back. He isn’t surprised, really, at Kuroro’s statement. He’s old enough to understand what demons are and the prices they demand.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not?” He should have died with his parents. He _wishes_ he had.

Kuroro doesn’t answer, instead staring up at him with those eerily-blank eyes. “What will you do now?”

The blond’s expression is empty as answers. “I’ll avenge my parents. If I cannot kill you,” he states evenly, not caring about the bluntness in his words, “then I will kill him. _Huai_. I will take everything away from him, as he has done to me.” Rage, consuming and filling, floods his thoughts, and for the first time in weeks, Kurapika feels grounded.

“There’s nothing for you in revenge,” Kuroro warns him. "You’ll kill yourself going down that path.” But his words fall on deaf ears.

“I died the day you murdered my parents,” Kurapika says, but there’s no venom in his voice. “There’s nothing left to kill.”

The demon looks at him with careful neutrality. “And after?”

“This _is_ my ‘after’.”

* * *

 It’s five years later that Kurapika fulfills his vow.

His parents’ killer lies dead at his feet, his blood still warm where it coats Kurapika’s skin. Kurapika lets the knife clatter out of his grasp, and he sinks to his knees. He tries to stop his hands from shaking. It’s not like this is first time killing before. There had been countless others that he’d tortured, murdered, just to get to this one man. Years of searching, sleepless nights, just for this one moment. He should be happy, satisfied, that he’s avenged his parents, but instead, there’s an emptiness that caves in his chest. He’s lost himself, somehow, in this mission. A part of himself that he can never get back.

Kurapika glances at the monster’s agonized face, frozen in place for eternity, and wonders if it was all worth it. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he flinches.

“We have to go,” Kuroro tells him, not unkindly. “Get up.”

Numbly, Kurapika complies, and it’s as if he’s not truly present as his feet carry him silently out the back door and into the alleyway. Without Kuroro’s hand at his elbow, Kurapika feels like he could slip away.

“It gets easier.”

The demon’s voice cuts through the fog in his mind. Kurapika takes a deep breath.

“Letting go. Give it some time, Kurapika.”

Kurapika stops, turning to face Kuroro. “It’s been five years,” he says tightly, “and the pain still feels like it was only yesterday.”

The look Kuroro gives him is hard to decipher, but there’s a sort of heaviness in his eyes that speaks volumes.

“It will always be like that,” he replies, gloved fingers stroking Kurapika’s cheek. “But you learn to live with it.” The cool slide of leather against Kurapika’s skin is comforting, and it feels like a betrayal as he leans into the touch.

“ _This_ is your ‘after,’ Kurapika,” he says softly. “Don’t waste it.”

* * *

Kurapika picks himself up in pieces. It takes him a year to gather up the strength to sell the house. With the sum of money he gets from the settlement he leaves town, because there’s nothing there for him, not anymore. The only thing he keeps of his parents is a small envelope of photographs, which he keeps in a box by his bedside. The rest is put into storage or sold off.

He looks at them sometimes, the photos, just so that he never forgets his mother’s smile or the way his father’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he laughs.

He applies for a job at a detective agency when he turns eighteen, and he supposes that it’s his parents’ name that allows him to be hired without a formal degree. Regardless, Kurapika is good at what he does, and his boss stumbles over a poor joke about how it must run in the family. There isn’t one soul in the agency that hasn’t heard of his parents and their deaths, but Kurapika grows used to the pity and false sympathy from people that assume they understand.

The empty feeling never really goes away. He tries to go to a doctor, mostly because his boss is concerned and pushes him to schedule an appointment, but the only answer they have is a bottle of pills and instructions to come back once a month for more. The medication screws with his mind, and Kuroro helps him flush it down the toilet after the third time that the blond strays just a little too close to the edge of his balcony.

So Kurapika distracts himself with his work. It’s a fresh start, Kurapika supposes, because Yorknew is just about as far from Lukso as one can get. But still, his ghosts follow him.

He dreams of his parents often, their bodies beaten and bloody as they moan for his help. He dreams of the shades of his victims clawing at him, whispering _murderer, murderer,_ as they drag him further into the darkness. On particularly bad nights, Kurapika swears that someone is there, whispering soft words into his ear and running a soothing hand through his hair. But when he wakes, Kuroro is gone.

The demon isn’t as present as he had been when Kurapika was younger, but he’s still around enough that Kurapika keeps caramel pudding in his pantry just in case. He stopped hating the demon years ago, but there are still times when Kurapika can’t stand to look at him because all he sees is his parents, dead and cold as the demon stands over their bodies.

They have what Kurapika hesitates to call a symbiotic relationship—Kuroro is the last person that should be able to keep him sane, but he does. And Kurapika... well, Kurapika isn’t sure what Kuroro is gaining out of helping him besides his soul. He suspects, of course, with the way that he catches Kuroro looking at him for just a beat too long when he thinks Kurapika isn’t paying attention, but he’ll never confront him about it.

Demons are fickle creatures. Kurapika knows better than to disturb the tentative peace between them.

* * *

There’s a new medic in the office. His name is Leorio, and everything about him makes Kurapika’s chest feel tight. He is everything that Kurapika’s ever wanted: stability. He’s good looking, intelligent, and painfully kind, and Kurapika likes to think that maybe if things were different, they would make a good couple.

Apparently staying away from the man isn’t enough to put him off, however. After a few weeks of limiting their interactions to polite exchanges in the agency lobby, Leorio starts to take his lunch break when Kurapika does. Senritsu,  Kurapika’s receptionist, urges him to give the medic a chance. _“You deserve this much,”_ she tells him, and Kurapika, against his better judgment, listens.

Lunch with Leorio is tormenting. The man acts as if he has just stepped out of a 1960s home improvement magazine, sprouting bright aspirations about helping people and daydreaming about a perfect life with a house full of kids and a ring wrapped around his finger. He’s loud and a bit brash, but there’s a humor to him that makes Kurapika lean closer.

Kurapika wants so badly to let himself go, to immerse himself in the other’s presence, in his world of bright mornings and a home in the countryside, but he can’t. Leorio must sense the blond pulling away, retreating, because he takes his hand, expression earnest.

“Do you know why I chose to become a doctor?” he asks softly. Kurapika shakes his head, staring at the point where Leorio’s skin touches his own. He’s never been one for physical affection, but Leorio’s touch, so warm and sincere, he doesn’t mind. “It was for a friend. The pain never really goes away, Kurapika,” he says. There’s a slight quaver in his voice that makes Kurapika want to reach out, to comfort him.

“I know.”  

“I see him in my dreams, sometimes. But now I know he can rest easy because I’m doing all of this. For him.”

The doctor smiles, a sad thing that Kurapika finds himself returning. Standing up, Leorio gives his hand one last squeeze. “Grief isn’t a weapon, Kurapika; it’s a tool. We can choose to be hurt by it or we can learn from it; let it shape us into something better.”

* * *

 Leorio’s words are still ringing in his ears by the time he makes it home, and as he twists the lock in place he can feel Kuroro materialize behind him.

“Your doctor friend is right.”

Kurapika sets down his briefcase, sliding down into the seat across from Kuroro. “I know.”

The demon gives a thoughtful hum. “He cares for you.”

There was an undercurrent of _something_ that makes Kurapika look away. “So he does.”

“He’s a good man.”

The blond stands up abruptly, making his way to the kitchen. Kuroro follows him.

“He left you his contact,” the demon tells him, tone light, but his expression is serious as he hands Kurapika the slip of paper. “You should give him a call.”

“There’s no point.” His words are clipped, full of warning. Kuroro, as usual, doesn’t take the hint.

Kuroro lifts a brow. “And why is that?”

“I would ruin him,” Kurapika says simply, busying himself with loading the dishwasher. “I’ve lost so much—”

“He has too.”

“It’s different,” he insists. Kurapika lets a plate fall into the sink with a loud _thunk._ “He saves lives. God, I’ve _killed_ … I’ve killed people,” Kurapika hisses. “Even if I could let go of this… this grief, I’ll never stop being haunted.” He wipes his hands off vigorously with a towel. “I see them almost every night. What would I tell him, when he finds out?”

“The truth.”

A mirthless laugh. “And you think he’d still want me?” The demon opens his mouth to object, but Kurapika shakes his head. “Nobody wants damaged goods,” he mutters to himself, and Kuroro’s eyes flicker with a strange emotion. In an instant, the demon is in front of him. Kurapika backs away until his back hits the lip of the sink.

Kuroro’s scent, crisp linen and cardamom, hits him, and Kurapika doesn’t turn away as the demon reaches up to grasp his chin.

“I might,” Kuroro says, so quietly that Kurapika is barely even sure he says it at all. And then the demon is gone, leaving Kurapika alone with his thoughts in the dimly-lit kitchen.

* * *

Kuroro is around more often after that. He mostly sticks to the shadows, watching from afar, but Kurapika can feel his presence nonetheless. He doesn’t think much of it until one of the interns, Gon, pulls him aside and asks if the demon is stalking him. _“Do I need to call the police?”_ he says, concerned.

For a moment, Kurapika is confused, but then he sees him. Kuroro is sitting at a cafe across the street, pretending to read a book. He looks normal for once, wearing a simple suit and forgoing that ridiculous hair gel. Their eyes meet, and Kurapika fights off a weird shiver that runs down his spine. He tells Gon that _no,_ the ‘man’ isn’t stalking him, and _yes,_ Kurapika knows who he is. The boy looks like he wants to push the subject, but Kurapika just shakes his head. He’ll have to talk about this with Kuroro.

It’s a week later that Kurapika actually comes face to face with the demon, and it’s because Kuroro seeks him out first.

Senritsu taps him on the shoulder. “There’s a man here for you. He says that his name is Kuroro.” The secretary bites her lip. “I’ve never seen him before. If you want me to send him away I can—”

“It’s fine.” Kurapika interrupts, swallowing. He gets up from his seat and follows her out of his office.

Kuroro is standing there, not looking out of place in the expensive agency lobby. The demon catches sight of him immediately, his blank stare boring into Kurapika’s with an intensity that gives him the impression that he’s staring right into Kurapika’s soul, which he probably is.

“What are you doing here?” Kurapika asks, tongue oddly heavy in his mouth. Kuroro doesn’t reply, instead running a gloveless hand down Kurapika’s cheek. Senritsu averts her eyes as if she’s looking in on an intimate moment, which she _isn’t._

“You haven’t been eating,” Kuroro says after a moment, “and I know that the… _day_ is coming.” Kurapika looks down. He does the same thing every year—distances himself from the rest of the world in the weeks leading up to the anniversary of his parents’ death.

“You’ve been following me.”

Kuroro casts him a puzzling look. “You need to take care of yourself, Kurapika.” The demon takes his hand, the contact sending odd sparks that Kurapika doesn't understand. He sees from the corner of his eye Gon watching him, whispering to his friend Killua about something. Hastily, he rips his hand from the other’s hold.

“I’m buying you lunch,” Kuroro says, unfazed. Kurapika gives him a peers up at him, searching.

“And if I say no?

“You won’t.”

Kurapika hates that he’s right. He allows himself to sulk for a few moments as Kuroro leads out of the building.

* * *

Kuroro continues to stop by at Kurapika’s office to whisk him away to some fancy restaurant or another for lunch for the next few weeks, to the point that Senritsu has started to schedule in a larger lunch break for him every Wednesday. Gon and Killua stop asking him who the strange man is after the first few times, in which Kurapika just replied cryptically that Kuroro was an ‘ _old acquaintance’_ and left it at that. The demon is disarmingly charming when he wants to be, so no one asks too many questions.

Still, the whole situation raises a few eyebrows, including Leorio’s, but Kuroro doesn’t make a big deal about it so neither does Kurapika. He tells himself that it doesn’t mean anything and stuffs down into the recesses of his mind the small twinge of excitement that he feels whenever Kuroro’s hand lingers a little too long at the small of his back. It’s better, _easier,_ than facing the reality that something is changing between them.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Kuroro asks after Kurapika’s gone quiet one too many times as they’re walking back to the agency.

“It’ll cost a lot more than that,” he mumbles and the demon just laughs. Kurapika hates how rich the sound is. How it makes his stomach do weird little flips.

“Try me.”

Kurapika sighs. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” 

“This.” He gestures to the space between them. “What is this?”

Kurapika swears that he sees something in Kuroro freeze at the question. “The contract. I can’t have you expiring before your time, now can I?” His tone is convincingly honest, but Kurapika’s been around Kuroro long enough to know when he’s lying.

“Right,” he replies, a foreign feeling tugging at his chest.

* * *

Everything comes to a head one night as Kurapika is walking home from work.

The newest case file is still swirling in his head, but he’s not too distracted that he doesn’t notice how the streetlamps slowly burn out around him. He reaches for his gun holster, only to remember that he left it back at his office. When a choked cry rings out somewhere to Kurapika’s right, he stiffens.

It’s dark, and the rain has picked up from a steady drizzle to fat drops splattering on the pavement, but the traffic lights are still in operation. A metallic glint catches Kurapika’s eye. Shoes hitting the ground quietly, Kurapika follows the dull shine into a small alleyway. 

“ _Stay quiet_ ,” a voice hisses, before turning into something terribly soft. “Oh, I’m going to have _so_ much fun with you, darling." Kurapika can see them now, the faint outline of two people.

Something in Kurapika freezes. The lilting quality of the man’s tone is familiar—he’s heard it countless times in the security tapes found at numerous crime scenes.

_The Hui Guo Rou killer. Tserriednich._

Kurapika knows he should follow protocol and call Mizaistorm, but then he would risk alerting the murderer to his presence. His department has been chasing the Hui Guo Rou slasher for months, and the impulsive side of Kurapika urges him to take the chance while he has it. At the very least, he’ll distract the man long enough for his victim to escape.

Kurapika feels like he has nothing to lose as he yanks the killer off of his prey, knocking the knife out of his grasp. “Run,” he urges the shell-shocked woman, pushing her behind him.

Tserriednich picks himself off of the ground, smiling up at him in a way that makes Kurapika’s blood run cold. The man’s attention has shifted entirely from his previous target, eyes alight as he takes in the silhouette of the blond.

“You’ve ruined my fun,” he tells Kurapika childishly, pouting. Kurapika shivers at just how _gone_ the man is.

“I could care less,” Kurapika spits. He knows that the knife is several feet in front of him. _He just needs to find it…_

“But,” Tserriednich continues, tone perfectly saccharine, “I think you’ll make such a pretty doll as well.” Kurapika doesn’t have time to search for the blade before hands close around his neck, lifting him off of the ground. The murderer laughs, crowding him close against a wall. His breath fans hot at Kurapika’s ear as he leans in.

“Shh,” the man hushes him, but Kurapika’s digging the metal of his cufflinks into the killer’s left eye before he can move away. Tserriednich cries out, letting go of Kurapika.

"You  _fucker,_ " Kurapika coughs. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Tserriednich says, recovering himself. He sounds pleased, _excited,_ even. Kurapika stumbles backward as he hears the drag of metal against the pavement. The other man advances toward him, holding the knife in one hand and clutching his eye with the other. “How _impolite_ of you.”

He’s on top of him in an instant, straddling his hips. Kurapika lashes out, only to be met with grip at his throat, the tip of the knife skimming his chin. Tserriednich knows better to keep his distance this time, and Kurapika struggles fruitlessly as the rain-slicked blade traces down to the vulnerable skin of his neck.

“I think I’ll keep this part of you intact,” the man muses. “So stunning, that _expression_.” The knife tip presses dangerously against Kurapika’s throat.

Then there’s a flash of movement at the corner of Kurapika’s vision. Suddenly the weight on his chest lifts as the man is suspended mid-air, body convulsing with some unseen agony as the red of the traffic lights paints his face scarlet.

“Stop,” Kurapika croaks. He can feel the other’s presence, his wrath an oppressive force bumping against his mind.

Tserriednich crumples to the pavement, out cold.

The neat click of dress shoes echoes in the alleyway and Kurapika sighs as he’s dragged to his feet.

“Thanks,” he mumbles out, but Kuroro’s too busy looking at the thin lines carved down Kurapika’s face.

Kuroro inhales sharply. “Did he—?” He stops, taking Kurapika’s chin into his hands, inspecting him.

“How could you be so reckless?” Kuroro demands once he’s sure that Kurapika isn’t hurt. A part of Kurapika still freezes at the amount of anger burning behind the man’s words, but he tries not to let it show. The demon’s face is a war of emotions, his human features shifting and rippling like the surface of the ocean as he struggles for composure.

“I knew what I was doing,” Kurapika fires back, gritting his teeth as Kuroro’s nails dig into his skin.

“No,” the demon retorts, voice sickly sweet, “you _didn’t_. I thought you had outgrown this—this foolish behavior. After all that I’ve done for you, and yet you still act like a _child_.” The man’s words are like a slap to his face, and Kurapika yanks his arm from the other’s grasp.

Licking his lower lip and tasting blood, Kurapika tugs off his ruined coat. “What was I supposed to do?” he asks. “Was I supposed to let him get away? Let him run off free to harm someone else?” He’s avoiding Kuroro’s eyes now, too afraid of what he might see. To his surprise, Kuroro has nothing to say. The demon opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly.

“You could have been killed,” he snaps instead, eyes flashing. The demon’s power comes off in waves, dark and repugnant, and Kurapika can’t help the dread that curls in his stomach. He’s bracing himself from the violence that’s sure to come, but then Kuroro’s expression crumples, and his next words are so quiet that the rain almost drowns them out. “ _I could have lost you._ ”

It’s at this, and not the demon’s murderous rage, that Kurapika flinches visibly. This _thing_ that has been building between them reaches its peak, and he just snaps.

“Why do you care?” Kurapika’s voice is quiet now, but full of steel. The demon swallows, jaw set. A cruel part of him pushes him to keep going, to press this rare chink in Kuroro’s armor. He wants to hurt Kuroro, to hurt him in such a way that maybe, _maybe,_ the demon will feel even just a fraction of the pain that Kurapika carries with him everywhere, that pushes on Kurapika’s chest with every breath. “And don’t give me any of that ‘contract’ bullshit,” he spits, bitter satisfaction filling his veins as Kuroro stiffens with every word. “I _know_ you, Kuroro, whether you like it or not.”

“ _I know you._ ” He steps closer, relishing this moment of power. “This isn’t just about my soul anymore, is it?” Kurapika says, more statement than question. Kuroro stays silent, staring at a point beyond Kurapika intensely. “What is it? What more do you want from me?” Kurapika’s hushed voice rings harsh in the alleyway now, all the frustration and confusion from the past few days pouring out. “ _What more haven’t you taken from me already_?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Kurapika finds himself pushed against the wall, Kuroro’s lips crashing down on his own. Rough brick scrapes against Kurapika’s back, but he hardly notices as one of Kuroro’s hands grips his waist, desperate and bruising. The other tangles in Kurapika’s hair, drawing a gasp from the blond as he deepens the kiss. Kuroro’s demanding, _hungry_ , and Kurapika’s head swims at the dizzying sensation. He barely has time to react before Kuroro’s pulling away, staying close enough that their foreheads touch with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“I care for you,” Kuroro says softly. “I don’t know why. Demons aren’t supposed to _feel_. I’m not supposed to want to protect you, to worry about you when you’re out of my sight, to miss you when you’re not with me. I’m not supposed to want this,” he whispers, hand coming down to cup Kurapika’s cheek, “but I do.”

Kurapika doesn’t respond, instead staring blankly at the demon caging him in. There’s nothing he _can_ say really about how his nerves give a little thrill when Kuroro leans in again, slotting their mouths perfectly together. Being with Kuroro is intoxicating, and Kurapika knows this, has known this, but still, he doesn’t resist as the other pulls him closer. Warm affection mixed with blunt-tipped lust wash over him, so strong that Kurapika moans against the demon’s lips, causing Kuroro to tighten his grip on the blond’s hips. Kurapika’s lost in the heady feeling of Kuroro’s body pressed against him, the scent of his cologne clinging to his clothes, and it takes too long for him to realize what’s happening.

But once he does, he pushes Kuroro away, shame thick in his throat. “Stop,” he croaks, fighting back the frustrated sob that’s been building in his chest. Kuroro pulls away reluctantly, but doesn’t let go of Kurapika’s waist. “Stop,” Kurapika repeats, steadier this time. “ _Get out of my head_.”

Kuroro blanches, recoiling from Kurapika as if he has been burned. The demon curses under his breath, and the swirl of emotions in Kurapika’s mind withdraws.

Kurapika sighs, letting his eyes slip shut as he leans against the wet brick. “Feelings aren’t something you play with, Kuroro,” he says, sounding as tired as he feels. “You don’t get to… you don’t get to…” He can’t bring himself to finish. _He doesn’t get to what?_

There’s a long lapse of silence and Kurapika opens his eyes. Kuroro’s watching him, a strange expression on his face, and Kurapika wants to scream. The scales have tipped back into Kuroro’s favor and Kurapika knows that if he wanted, the demon could easily pick him apart. It would be so easy; Kurapika’s already falling apart at the seams.

But Kuroro doesn’t and somehow that makes the blond feel worse.

Instead, the demon comes closer, steps tentative, and Kurapika doesn’t have the energy to stop him. Kuroro’s hand comes up to stroke his cheek, thumbing away the tears that Kurapika doesn’t remember letting fall.

“Everything that you felt,” Kuroro says slowly, as if each word pains him to say, “all those _feelings_ ,” he spits, “were mine.” The demon closes his eyes, and all of a sudden the drowning feeling is there, faint and restrained, but there all the same. Kurapika’s eyes widen as realization dawns on him.

“What more do I want from you?” Kuroro laughs bitterly. “ _Everything_. I want you, Kurapika. Mind, body, and soul.”

Kurapika doesn’t protest as Kuroro pulls him closer. He’s trembling now, uncontrollably so, and the demon just holds him tighter, kissing his forehead all-too-carefully.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” Kurapika just closes his eyes, swallowing back the tangle of emotions caught in his throat.

It’s unfair. All of this. But Kurapika clings onto Kuroro nonetheless.

* * *

Kurapika starts receiving gifts a few days later.

It starts small, like chocolates left at his desk and little notes taped to the monitor of his computer. He tries to ask Senritsu who they’re from, but she just shakes her head, smiling to herself. Kurapika is pretty sure that he knows, though, with how the notes, each one written on expensive stationery, smell faintly of Kuroro’s cologne. He catches himself pressing one of the cards to his nose, breathing in the scent of the demon.

He can’t ignore it anymore—his attraction to Kuroro. It’s been eating away at his thoughts. One part of him is convinced that anything more than a shaky truce with the demon would be an insult to his parents’ deaths, to everything that he’s built for himself so far. Another part of him wants to accept these confusing emotions, because he’s grown dependent on Kuroro whether he likes it or not, and he’s not sure if he can live without him. He means this in the most literal way possible. Kurapika has entered a kind of dangerous codependency on the demon. A codependency he’d rather die than admit, but still, Kuroro is the one that he calls for in the midst of nightmares. He’s the only one that knows Kurapika better than himself.

To put it simply: all of this terrifies Kurapika.

So when he walks into his office to find the space completely filled with blue hyacinths, he knows that this has to stop. Senritsu gives him a sympathetic look when he tells her that he isn’t feeling well and that he should cancel all of his appointments for the day. It’s like she knows, but all she does is give him a comforting pat on the hand before sending him off.

He doesn’t even bother to lock the door behind him before he calls out to the demon. Kurapika knows he's nearby, watching, and his suspicions are confirmed when Kuroro appears before him. His eyes burn with a kind of fire that makes something in Kurapika twist.

“Kurapika?” The way he says his name is too soft, too familiar. Kurapika cringes away from him.

“What is all this?” he asks. Kuroro looks at him quizzically. “The gifts, the flowers, the _notes..._ ”

Kuroro’s expression only grows confused. “Is that not how humans court?” Kurapika feels like the ground has been ripped from underneath him, and he stumbles.

“We’re not courting.” Kurapika’s breathing hitches as the demon lifts a brow.

“Aren’t we?”

“I—”

“You feel something too,” Kuroro insists, “don’t you?” He walks closer and Kurapika matches him with a step backward. “I know you do.” Suddenly, the demon is behind him. A finger strokes his pulse, which beats strong and fast under his touch. Kurapika exhales shakily, trying not to get lost in the other’s heat, his scent. Hands slide down to grip his waist as if to make a point, and Kurapika chokes.

“This isn’t love, Kuroro.”

“No,” Kuroro breathes, moving in front of him so that their eyes can meet, “this is something much deeper. You depend on me. You _need_ me, Kurapika.” There’s no mockery, no arrogance in his words—just simple fact. Kurapika turns away.

“That doesn’t mean I want you,” he replies.

“But you do—”

“I _can’t._ ”

Kurapika’s voice catches at the end. Kuroro blinks.

“And why is that?”

The blond breaks out of Kuroro’s hold. “I am what I am because of you. Because you took them from me.”

“I was contracted to.” The demon’s voice holds something bordering frustration, and a part of Kurapika prides itself at getting a reaction out of Kuroro. “I had no choice.”

“ _Bullshit_. There is always a choice. You didn’t have to accept it,” Kurapika spits, “but you did. You were the one holding the knife to my mother’s throat. It doesn’t matter whether or not you did it on your own terms.”

Something ugly flashes in the demon’s eyes. “If I am a monster because I kill on the whims of humans” —his voice grows terribly quiet— “then tell me, _what does that make you_?

“I’ve killed, yes,” Kuroro continues cruelly, driving the last nail into Kurapika’s coffin, “but I never _enjoyed_ it.”

Something must have broken in Kurapika’s expression, because the uncaring glint in Kuroro’s stare falters. But the damage has been done. _He’s right._ All the self-loathing and hate crawls back up Kurapika’s throat and he feels like he’s drowning in it. He can’t deny it, the moment of triumph that he felt as Huai’s life bled from his eyes, no matter how brief. No matter the crushing guilt and pain that followed. He takes a deep breath.

“Get out.” He needs to think.

“Kurapika, I—”

The blond can’t bring himself to look at Kuroro. “Leave,” he says again, but there’s no anger in his voice. “ _Please._ ” Kuroro hesitates for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, before vanishing.

* * *

The next time Kurapika breaks, Kuroro isn’t there. The demon hasn’t been anywhere, _period,_ and Kurapika can do nothing as the feeling of distinct _wrongness_ builds in his chest. Still, he ignores it at first, because life doesn’t stop just because Kuroro isn’t there to push him through it. Yorknew’s blooming underworld spins out of control over the next few weeks, and Kurapika drowns himself in the case files so he doesn’t have to think about the new, yawning cavity in his chest.

Kurapika’s so deep in his work that he doesn’t notice that’s he’s stopped eating, stopped sleeping. Mizaistorm forces him to take a few days off after the first two weeks of this, and Kurapika spirals.

It isn’t until Gon, Killua, Leorio, and Senritsu nearly break down the door to his apartment, halting him from where he sways just a little too much at the edge of his balcony, that Kurapika wonders if maybe, _maybe,_ it’s time to stop running from all of this.

So he does. Sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of his kitchen and balancing a bowl of cold cereal that Leorio has forced onto him on his lap, Kurapika tells them everything. He leaves out Kuroro as much as possible because he doesn't know how to explain something that he doesn't even understand himself. When all is said and done, he braces himself for their disgust, their fear.

Instead, Gon gets up and wraps his arms around him. Leorio holds his hand as he falls apart, and Senritsu talks him down with soothing fingers stroking his hair. It isn’t until the tears stop coming that Killua speaks from where he sits, perched on one of the countertops.

“You need to let go,” he says, not harshly, but bluntly enough that Kurapika looks up. “You can’t carry this guilt around forever, Kurapika.”

“Killua, I’ve killed—”

The teen shakes his head, interrupting him. “Do you know how many people I’ve murdered?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t wait for a response. “I’ve lost count.” Kurapika tries to hide his surprise because in the back of his head, he’s always known. Killua defected from the powerful Zoldyck syndicate before coming to work at the agency, so the implication is no secret.

“Do you hate me for it?” Killua questions.

“No,” Kurapika replies, reaching for him, “of course not.”

“Why not? I feel no remorse for what I’ve done.” The unfeeling note in his voice is chillingly familiar, and Kurapika forces down a shiver.

“It doesn’t matter,” Kurapika says, and he means it. “You’re on a different path, now.” Killua smiles.

“Then why should it matter for you?”

The blond opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out.

Senritsu touches his shoulder. “He’s right. No one comes to work for the Association with a clean slate. The reason we can track down criminals so efficiently is because we _were_ them, once.” Kurapika nods mutely.

“I understand you,” Gon tells him, looking oddly serious. “The revenge thing.” Killua’s eyes flicker with something that Kurapika hesitates to identify.

“Kite,” the silver-haired boy supplies, and Gon glances down.

“I killed her,” he reveals, and his words are devoid of his usual spark. Kurapika’s heart sinks, because Gon is so young, so naive. Killua, he had expected, but Gon? “I killed her—the assassin,” he continues, “and I didn’t regret it. Not until after.”

“It still haunts me,” Gon explains, but he nudges Killua’s shoulder, “but that’s what friends are for. To pick you back up.” He smiles at Kurapika, and the empty feeling in his chest lessens. “We’re here for you, Kurapika. We promise.”

“I’m not entirely innocent, either,” Leorio chimes in, breaking the companionable silence has settled. Kurapika quirks a brow skeptically as Gon grins.

“That’s true! You punched my dad!” he exclaims. “And on live television, too!”

“Didn’t know you had that in you, Gramps,” Killua snickers, earning him an indignant look.

Leorio sniffs. “It _was_ a good punch.”

Gon dissolves into laughter, and Kurapika finds himself joining in. It’s there, surrounded by his friends, that Kurapika finally feels himself start to heal.

Later, Kurapika takes out the sheaf of photos from the box beside his bed. He strokes the faded paper of the photograph, tears wetting his cheeks. He looks at his parents’ grinning faces, their arms wrapped loosely around their son. _Their son._ Kurapika can scarcely recognize himself in the smiling boy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if his mother and father can hear him. He knows what he has to do, now. Pressing one last kiss to the pictures, he finds that no crushing sadness follows as he slips them back into their envelope. A bittersweet feeling curls in his chest, and Kurapika feels at peace for the first time in ten years.

* * *

 Gathering the right materials for the summoning takes a few days, but for that Kurapika is grateful. It gives him to think, to process just _what_ he wants from Kuroro.

There’s a new feeling of independence that Kurapika has now, and he’s scared that he’ll lose himself if he sees Kuroro again. The fear is irrational, though, because Kurapika knows that things will be different this time around. There conflict that has tormented him for years is now quiet, and Kurapika feels that for once he is grounded. He is his own anchor, now. 

Drawing the last sigil in chalk, Kurapika recites the spell he finds in one of his parents’ books. The Latin is marred by his accent, but the summoning circles begins to glow faintly anyway. After a frightening moment where Kurapika isn’t sure if Kuroro will answer his call, the air grows thick and the sounds of the city grates tinny in his ears.

The demon appears in his true form, his face at once terrifying and beautiful, but Kurapika discerns the Kuroro he knows in the way his eyes widen at the sight of the blond. Kuroro’s form fizzles out then, like a mirage in the desert, and when he looks up Kurapika is surprised.

“Kurapika,” he says, and Kurapika feels like the world could shake with all the quiet emotion locked into that single name. Kuroro looks exhausted. His hair is disheveled and dark rings glare against his pale skin. Demons don’t need to sleep, so Kurapika knows that this is something else. This, _this_ is the effect that Kurapika has on him. But instead of basking in the newfound power he holds over Kuroro, Kurapika’s heart squeezes painfully. Walking towards him, Kurapika crosses into the summoning circle, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek.

“You look tired,” he tells him softly. Kuroro breathes in deeply, taking Kurapika’s hand to kiss the inside of his wrist.

“And you look well-rested.” There’s no bite in other’s tone, but Kurapika can see the wistfulness clear in his features. Kurapika hums, drinking in the other’s presence because God, he’s missed this. There are no apologies at Kuroro’s lips, not that Kurapika expected any, but his remorse is apparent in the heaviness of his movements as he tucks a lock of hair behind Kurapika’s ear.

“I’m trying it,” Kurapika starts haltingly, “what you told me to do. Moving on, I mean.” The demon stiffens.

“So I’ve heard.” Kuroro turns away from him, walking out of the barrier as if it’s nothing. “Why did you summon me? If this is your way of a goodbye, then don’t waste your time,” the demon informs him tightly. “Your soul is _mine_ , Kurapika, and if you think I’m going to just leave —”

“I’m not asking you to.” Kurapika closes the distance between them. The demon’s words should scare him, but all he feels is a twisted sense of relief. Kuroro’s confusion is palpable, and Kurapika forces himself not to look away as the demon searches his face. “I don’t want you to.”

Kurapika swallows. He’s embarrassed, with how the demon just looks at him. All of the words that he has prepared fall from his mind, so he speaks what has lain unspoken for too long at his lips.

“I think I might want this. Want you,” he blurts. Shock falls into heated focus in the other’s expression at his quiet revelation.

Something like a growl rushes out from deep in the demon’s throat. Kuroro pulls him tightly against his chest, as if he’s afraid he’ll slip away. “ _Say it again_.”

There’s a kind of dark pleasure in Kuroro’s voice that makes Kurapika shiver and obey. Brushing their lips together, Kurapika repeats, “I want you, Kuroro”

Kuroro shudders, coming apart at the gentle press of Kurapika’s frame against his.

“Good,” the demon murmurs, voice shaking with something that makes Kurapika’s knees weak. “Good,” he repeats, and Kurapika’s eyelids flutter closed when he leans in again.

As Kuroro’s hands run over his skin, reverent, Kurapika feels _whole_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you were able to stick through some of the more boring parts! I'm a little embarrassed to say that I'm kind of proud of this oneshot, because it's the first time that I've written something that has more subtle, darker themes. It's a drastic change from my first work(s) from when I first started writing on Fanfiction.net (please do NOT go read them if you want to preserve my dignity)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading and pleas leave a comment on what you thought or if you have any questions about this AU!
> 
> Lots of love,  
> unreadable0 
> 
> Added Notes:  
> 1\. Kuroro's demon form is basically his normal outfit on a taller body. I kind of picture him as kind of terrifying and a bit ugly, because you know, demons. From Hell. Gotta be scary. But honestly, whatever you guys pictured him as probably works too. 
> 
> 2\. I didn't explain it AT ALL like I planned to initially, because there was going to be a scene in which we get to see Kuroro's interactions with Kurapika's mother. Basically, the reason why Kuroro chooses not to kill Kurapika int he beginning is because Kurapika's mother made a contract with him right before he killed her. Kuroro is extremely reluctant the agree to the contract because a lot of the terms don't really follow the rules of Demon Law or whatever, but he feels pity and eventually relents. Originally, she offers her own soul, but Kuroro refuses on the basis that he has claim over it. So in exchange for protecting Kurapika, Kuroro gets his soul. 
> 
> 3\. One thing that bugs me about this story is how I wrote about the grieving process. It comes off as pretty superficial to me, partially because I wanted to focus in on a much subtler aspect of it instead of how brutal it can be, and partially because I just started writing what people used to tell me.
> 
> 4\. The whole scene where Kurapika tells Kuroro to get out of his head happens because Kuroro is projecting his emotions onto Kurapika, which he does unconsciously. Kurapika is angry because Kuroro has projected ON PURPOSE before, usually to get Kurapika to calm down/listen to him.
> 
> 5\. Blue Hyacinths symbolize constancy and sincerity. 
> 
> Song List  
> \- Devil's Work by Miike Snow  
> \- Pretender by Miike Snow  
> \- Glitter & Gold by Barns Courtney  
> \- Twisted by MISSIO  
> \- The Therapist by Foreign Air  
> \- Arcade by Duncan Lawrence
> 
> Find me on tumblr @unreadable0


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